


Olim

by Kyele



Series: ad infinitum [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Epilogue, Feels, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:11:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6815437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting started on that happily ever after. (Or, how Barry's getting-fucked virginity got good and lost.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/gifts).



> This was supposed to be porn. Porn, porn, porn. Then Eobard hijacked the POV and insisted on ruminating. There is still sex, but it is decidedly more feels than porn.
> 
> To coco, cheerleader extraordinaire, to whom this was promised in the ancient prophecy. Sorry it took so long!

Eobard kisses Barry in the kitchen until kisses are no longer enough. It’s the work of a moment, then, to carry Barry to bed. Barry laughs to find himself suddenly propelled across the house.

He can laugh because it isn’t a surprise. It can’t be, not when Eobard’s connection to the speed force is tied so tightly to Barry’s. Eobard would never have thought that there would ever be a time when he would be glad that Barry could sense him dipping into the speed force. But – the people they are, the life they live, surprises aren’t often pleasant ones. Eobard wouldn’t respond to a surprise with pleasure. Rather, he’d respond to it with aggression and adrenaline. Barry, he doesn’t doubt, would do just the same. So it’s – nice. That Eobard can pick Barry up and carry him across the house without it being a surprise.

It’s not as if Eobard has anything left to hide from Barry, anyway. No ulterior motives. No hidden goals.

No goals at all, hidden or otherwise. Eobard places Barry on his bed carefully and then just stops, suddenly adrift. He has no goal. No enemy to defeat, no protégé to train, no research challenge to solve, not even a grant to win – he’s standing in a bedroom that is his and not-his, and Barry Allen is in his bed, and –

_(And then what? We live happily ever after? This isn’t a fairy tale, Barry.)_

The size of the bed hasn’t changed. It had been this large before. Not for the sake of Eobard’s nonexistent companions. Just because it had been possible to have a large bed all to himself, so Eobard had bought it. Harrison Wells’ money had been such a heady thing in those early days, for a researcher used to scrabbling for grant money, for a boy from a family that had been middle-class on paydays and faked it the rest of the time.

The bed is the same. Or so it seems at first glance. But here, as with the rest of the house, the details have changed. The sheets are still grey, the pillows many and varied, the comforter black. _One_ of the comforters. There are three, now. A new memory comes to him: _Barry hogs them._ Eobard had bought a second comforter the day after Barry had first spent the night. That’s the red one. Eobard had insisted the choice of color had been artistic, and indeed, the splash of red in the monochrome room had been quite dashing. But the real reason, of course, the real reason had been the way Barry had looked, when he’d jumped into bed and rolled himself up in it and joked about being a Barrito –

“I know,” Barry says. He traces the simple machine-stitching on the red comforter, eyes faraway. “I remember.”

That Barry hadn’t been his Barry. That Eobard hadn’t been _him_. But the memories are theirs all the same.

The third comforter, the white one, had been bought after the red one hadn’t proved enough to keep Barry’s thieving at bay. Even still, Eobard remembers, he loses half of the black one, most nights. He refuses to buy a fourth. It’s become a point of honor.

The Eobard coming up behind them – he has goals. Simple goals. Fix the timeline. Create the Flash. Those have both now been accomplished. After that?

Help Barry be a hero. Pursue his scientific research. Help with the happiness of – of those under his care. Cisco, whose family didn’t understand him. Hartley, whose family didn’t want him. Caitlin, who mourned her father and hated her mother in equal measure. Ronnie, who’d never known his family at all…

Maybe that Eobard had wanted to care for those lost souls. This Eobard, who has been a villain, knows that he’d used their loneliness against them. It had made them so easy to control. Bringing them into STAR Labs, creating the artificial replacement family, teaching them to depend on him. Using movie nights to subdue them and scientific inspiration to manipulate them. It had been false, all of it. _False_ , Eobard knows, reaching for the memories that prove it, reaching for…

Even in the memories that are his, all the way his, there are so many that gainsay him.

Perhaps he has always been a fool.

 _Get in bed, Eobard,_ Barry murmurs to him, bypassing the flatness of spoken words for the infinitely richer connection they share through the speed force. Eobard tastes anticipation, desire – the faintest thread of nervousness, quickly whisked away – and there, like a light at the end of a grey weary day: love.

Eobard had developed the connection-sharing technology for use with his worst enemy, and consequently had trained himself, before employing it, in ways to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself while the connection is active. The evil Flash, of course, had had no such training. Eobard had counted that an advantage. And indeed it had been. The evil Flash had been mad, mad enough that it had been difficult to divine true thought amidst the chaos of his mind, but Eobard had still caught at the edges of plots and plans and the kind of emotion that had translated itself into reckless, uncontrolled action. An advantage indeed.

When Eobard had recreated the device in this time period – well, why should he have known, at that point, that Barry would be any different? True, Barry had not yet been mad; true, Eobard had been beginning to sense, dimly, that there would be something very different, something vitally in tune with _this_ Barry that had been out of tune in the other. But still Eobard had not _known_. So Eobard had settled the device around Barry’s neck, and turned it on, and reached out to learn…

What he had learned had overwhelmed him.

Eobard had meant to hold back. To hide himself away. To keep the connection as unidirectional as possible, taking from Barry without giving in return.

The first touch of Barry’s soul to his had utterly destroyed any protections Eobard had thought he’d erected.

Love, though – even in the midst of unexpected things, that had stood out as the least expected of all.

Eobard had worshipped his hero as a boy. Admired him as a youth. Emulated him as a student, a post-doc, a researcher. Become like him, as an adult. Become more like him than he’d ever intended to be. And in that becoming, Eobard had learned other things, too. Fear. Hatred. Loathing. Desperation. Frustration. Patience. Perspective.

Buried beneath all of those things, perhaps it hadn’t been so surprising that boyhood adulation could turn to love without Eobard’s conscious knowledge. And there it would have stayed buried, most likely, except for the determined youth who might actually be a hero.

Barry had dragged it out of him. Of course. That morning in STAR Labs Eobard had just been so _tired_ ; tired mentally, more than physically; tired emotionally, more than either of those. Tired of fighting, fighting, fighting, and getting nowhere. Tired of trying. Why did Eobard keep throwing himself at the brick wall named _Barry Allen_? What did he fight for? Vengeance had started to seem meaningless. Going home – impossible. Home might still be there, but it would have been waiting for an Eobard who had died a long time ago. So what had been left? Heroism? Hah. No one with blood on their hands could possibly be a hero. No one with blood on their hands could possibly be beloved.

Eobard sits on the bed at Barry’s side. Picks up Barry’s hand – his right hand – and kisses it deliberately.

He’d realized it then. After a night spent seething over Barry, over the strange fluctuations in the timeline, over the tachyon spikes. After learning what the data meant. After learning that Eobard had only to keep his mouth shut a few weeks longer, and the paradox would catch up to them. Barry would be deleted, everything would reset, and Eobard would finally have gotten to go _home_.

Then Barry had come bearing coffee and undeserved apologies. And Eobard had forgotten all of his perfectly good, perfectly logical reasons – forgotten his decision to remain silent – forgotten the taste of revenge and the satisfaction of victory – and told Barry everything.

That had been when he’d learned that he loved Barry Allen. Foolishly, recklessly, and quite without his own consent. Loved him with all of the shredded tatters and suturing lies that formed his heart.

That, too, Eobard had intended to hide. That promise, too, Eobard had broken. As Eobard had broken every other promise he’d ever made to himself, where Barry Allen is concerned.

Barry twists around at Eobard’s side, and Eobard catches the intention from him in the moment before it translates to action: sit up, wrap his arms around Eobard, snuggle in close and ask what’s wrong. It’s sweet. And they probably _do_ need to talk about all of these things. Emotional contagion is convenient, but no substitute for rational communication, after all.

Right now, though –

Eobard isn’t faster than Barry. Not anymore. Their speed and their capabilities are precisely equal, and equal they will remain, as long as they share this connection of theirs. But Eobard still has the edge of experience. He can drop in and out of the speed force just that flicker faster than Barry. And he knows the trick of skimming the top of the force, just that little bit enough to twist before Barry can, catching him mid-rise and bearing him back down to the bed with Eobard’s greater weight and Barry’s ready acquiescence.

For the next few moments, kissing is enough. Until the desire rises again, stoked by the delay, by the sharing and rebounding between them. Barry wants more: Eobard can feel it. Had felt it in the holding cell in the alternate 2024. Then there had been good reason to defer. Now, though… now Eobard can duck his head, nip at the sensitive skin beneath Barry’s chin, and grind his hips deliberately down.

“That’s good,” Barry says, wiggling experimentally underneath Eobard in response. He twines his arms around Eobard’s neck and arches, the little minx. “That’s _very_ good.” Transparently: “It would be better naked, though.”

“Greedy boy,” Eobard says, voice warm with approval. He concentrates for a moment. Dips into the speed force; traces the particular physical presence of his clothing, catches their signature – aligns his own – and –

“Ooooh,” Barry says appreciatively, as Eobard’s clothes melt through his briefly insubstantial body. That leaves them trapped between Barry and Eobard, contributing no advancement towards the goal of _reducing_ the number of layers between them, though it may satisfy some corner of Barry’s covers-stealing soul, the magpie. And the boy is clever. If he’s paid attention…

Indeed, that’s concentration overtaking the link between them. Barry closes his eyes. He concentrates better so; Eobard is looking forward to seeing those eyes slip closed in more pleasurable circumstances.

Barry does his pants first, then his shirt, then his undergarments, rather than doing it all at once, as Eobard had. Fair enough. Barry’s just testing the application of this technique to garments now, after all. It requires a much finer touch than running through walls. Eobard watches the molecules part for Barry, ready to slip in and give them the final push if Barry looks to be in danger of having a shirt rematerialize through his torso, but there’s no need. Barry’s a quick learner. Always has been. Eobard lets his approbation and pride filter through. Barry sparks bright joy in response, and needs no prompting to let Eobard’s clothes pass through him, too. The image of Barry spread out on Eobard’s bed, on top of his suit jacket and slacks, is unexpectedly erotic.

 _Show me?_ Barry asks, catching the sensation.

 _Oh…_ that’s an interesting proposition… and why not? They’ve already shared memories, and what is this but a memory being made…

It feels like it should be possible, to let Barry slip behind Eobard’s eyes, and see with him in real time. But something doesn’t slot quite right. It may just be lack of practice, or there may be some deeper cause, even some irresolvable issue that means it will never work that way. After a moment Eobard abandons the attempt and substitutes a workaround: sharing Barry the memories as soon as they’re made, so that Barry sees what Eobard sees with only a slight delay. The image Barry makes, pale and nearly glowing against the pearl-grey sheets and the dark-grey suit, is in no way diminished by that miniscule delay.

The sense of Barry in the speed force goes loose with wonder. _Is – is that really how you see me?_

Barry doesn’t mean the nudity, or the location. He means the affection that invests his physical form with beauty; the fondness that softens his sharp angles and gives harmony and balance to a body that’s been called odd, before, or gangly, or overgrown, by people too blind to know any better.

 _All the time_ , Eobard swears.

_(And then what? We live happily ever after?)_

There’s a sound more felt than heard that is still unmistakably a squeak, and then Barry is doing his best octopus impression, dragging Eobard down as close to him as possible. Eobard has no objections, neither to that nor to the resumption of kissing, though he does insist on moving on from lips to other interesting body parts. Barry’s neck has already been proven to be quite sensitive. Now Eobard confirms that the same is true of small tight nipples, flat stomach and curving hip-bones. Barry is amazingly responsive – or perhaps that’s the connection again. There’s no gain to trying to hold back one’s responses when one is connected emotionally to one’s partner. Barry is vocal, though, in his appreciation, and Eobard finds that he likes that. He likes Barry being uninhibited; he likes it when Barry doesn’t feel like he has to hide.

 _If I get any less inhibited this night’s going to be over very quickly,_ Barry gasps. Eobard had been enjoying a particularly soft spot right at the juncture of hip and thigh, and the jerk Barry’s cock gives is quite clearly felt next to Eobard’s cheek.

 _Now what makes you think you coming is going to be the end of the night?_ Eobard wonders.

Barry groans, strung tight as a wire, and Eobard has mercy on him then. Barry will soon discover what a speedster’s refractory time can be, when sufficiently focused. But if he’s not _appreciating_ Eobard’s attentions, they can move on to the next stage.

_Not appreciating – Eobard!_

Eobard chuckles. _A poor choice of words, obviously._

 _Obviously,_ Barry agrees, mock-injured.

Eobard tips his head to the side for a moment, consulting his memories. _He_ doesn’t keep the bedroom stocked – why would he, when his only companion for fifteen long years has been himself? But the _other_ Eobard, the one coming up behind him, the one into whose perpetual future Eobard has stepped… _he_ is in a relationship with Barry Allen. He, therefore, will be prepared.

Yes. Yes indeed.

Eobard opens the bedside table drawer with confidence and fishes out the bottle he finds within. His memories assure him it will suffice, but Eobard inspects the label, just to be sure. His Barry’s safety is _his_ responsibility, not that other Eobard’s.

The pause gives Barry a chance to look at what Eobard’s holding, too. Barry is not impressed.

“Is that the stuff you use to unstick the sliding doors at the lab?” he demands, indignant. “Eobard – I am not getting fucked with future WD-40!”

Eobard chuckles. “Actually,” he admits, “I use future AstroGlide to unstick the doors at the lab. Future WD-40 is the same as current WD-40. Personal lubricant, on the other hand, has had a number of advances.” He sets the small bottle down next to Barry’s knee.

“This is the best there is,” Eobard adds, serious now. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Promises, promises,” Barry quips, to cover – well. There’s a brief flash of interested excitement that tells Eobard that this may be something to explore.

Later. When the idea of hurting Barry stops being quite so bound up with reactionary revulsion. Eobard’s sure that it will happen eventually, and probably sooner than it should. Eobard is, after all, a very bad man.

_(It won’t be easy. I’ve done a lot of things.)_

_I like bad men,_ Barry says, and it sounds like he’d meant to keep it to himself, meant it as a joke, but let it slip out partway through.

 _So you do,_ Eobard says lightly. He pops the lid on the lubricant and squeezes some out.

Barry is watching with intent eyes, and the sense of him in the speed force is full of nervous anticipation. _Yes yes yes, please –_

Eobard has to clamp down hard on the wholly inappropriate urge to laugh. So eager, his Barry. It sends delight rippling through him, and that he _does_ let Barry feel, so that Barry will respond with that straightforward joy that is rapidly becoming addictive. Barry joyful is a sight to behold. He smiles, he laughs, his eyes sparkle. His whole face and body change, becoming animated and eager and as quite nearly beautiful as Barry will ever reach. Not to imply that Eobard would take the finest model on the planet over Barry. All of Eobard’s desire is wrapped up in the too-strong curve of Barry’s jaw, the lanky lines of his body, the startling brightness of his eyes, and never mind that the runways of Milan or New Paris would turn their noses up at the boy.

Desire. That’s the issue, though, isn’t it. That Eobard desires Barry has never been in any doubt. He’s desired Barry since – who can remember? In all Barry’s various incarnations, Barry has called to him. The hero seen in the museum, the dream made flesh in 2024, before the truth had destroyed that vision… even in the small child, may whatever Gods there are have mercy on Eobard, there had been enough hint of the adult to come… not that he would ever have touched the boy; but when the man grown had been brought to STAR Labs… even unconscious, even with some of the puppy fat still clinging to him, limbs overlong with growth too recent and a face relaxed in sleep but not innocent, never again innocent, not after… even then, looking upon the work of Eobard’s hands, the shattered remains of the hero Eobard had worshipped, there had been desire. Bound up in hatred and the drive for vengeance and the ever-present pain that had been the Flash’s legacy, and Eobard could not have said whether his desires were to possess or to utterly destroy, but desire there had most certainly been.

Eobard has no right to call on whatever Gods and whatever mercy there may be in the universe. All fine to think that he would never have touched the small child he’d found in the Allen household; all fine, except it’s a lie. Maybe he wouldn’t have defiled the boy. But what claim to righteousness does that buy Eobard, when he would have murdered him?

Desire. Eobard can match Barry’s desire effortlessly. But beneath Barry’s ardent lust, there’s something warmer. Softer. Kinder. Barry may be excited about being fucked, but he doesn’t want to be shoved up against a wall and taken briskly, or laid out and used efficiently. He wants to be caressed. He wants affection and tenderness. He wants to make love.

What does Eobard know of making love?

 _Eobard?_ Barry asks.

Eobard’s only hesitated a moment, objectively. But it’s evidently long enough that doubt has started to creep into Barry. Old instincts rise, demanding Eobard lash out, but – but Barry’s thoughts and feelings are still so heartbreakingly clear: _what’s wrong, was I wrong, does he not want this after all, is it me, oh god it’s me, he still sees the Flash when he looks at me_ –

Underneath that long exclamation of dismay, a quick whirl of mental images. Iris West struggling to breathe. A bunker beneath a broken city inhabited by grim-faced warriors who stare at Barry with barely-concealed hatred. Harrison Wells’ wheelchair. The first sense Barry had ever gotten of Eobard in the speed force, the two of them trying to connect, never quite managing it, always in pain. A yawning pit of hot shame that feels like the well of tears behind wept-dry eyes.

 _No. Never._ And to think Eobard would once have rejoiced in seeing the Flash learn shame at last. Well, the Flash is one thing. Barry Allen is quite another.

He shares that – no, he _sends_ it, pressing it onto Barry, into Barry, until Barry yields to Eobard’s insistence and accepts the sentiment, letting it fill him. Eobard wants Barry. Has always wanted him, in all the many ways one man can want another. The things that had prevented him from seizing Barry have all been swept away. There is no Flash here, in this room. There never will be, no matter how deeply Barry may drink of the speed force when they join.

But the Reverse Flash –

 _All I want is you,_ Barry whispers. _We – maybe we can both leave our masks behind._

Even so they do – Eobard puts it to Barry: _What do I know of love?_

_Enough._

Barry’s certainty is diamond-hard and unshakeable. Who is this boy, who can doubt himself in the face of all evidence, and yet believe in Eobard so faithfully?

Eobard lets out a breath. _And who am I,_ he asks himself, _to argue with him?_

 _Good question,_ Barry returns. He arches his back a little, wiggles in what he clearly hopes is an enticing way – and it _is_ enticing, because Barry wishes it to be so; because there will never be anything as appealing, as intoxicating, as Barry’s eagerness. Especially when Barry also says, _I would like to be fucked now, please._

 _So polite._ Eobard can’t help the warm welling amusement, even as he rubs his fingers together to wet them properly and settles back between Barry’s legs, nudging his balls aside and seeking the entrance beneath. _Relax for me, as you can._

Barry’s tight, of course – he’s never done this with someone else before – but it’s not too bad.

 _Play with yourself?_ Eobard checks. The sense of Barry is affirmative. _Often?_

 _When I’ve got time._ There’s a sense like a shrug. _Sometimes I’m just, you know, getting off in the shower or something._

_Yes indeed._

_But not – I don’t have any, er, sex toys. I just – fingers. Never really more than one._ Now the embarrassment is creeping into the sense of Barry. Eobard doesn’t think before he’s reaching out through the speed force, soothing it away.

 _I’ll take care of you,_ Eobard promises again.

Barry’s trust and relief in the face of this promise are sweeter than any revenge could ever have been.

Eobard gets the first finger into Barry easily enough, but, as Barry had said, that’s about the limit of Barry’s experience-gained flexibility. So Eobard lingers there, stroking and petting Barry inside and out. When he starts working on the second finger, Barry’s breath starts to come harder, starts taking on an edge that Eobard is unfortunately familiar with. Strain. Stress. The precursors to pain.

Barry’s erection flags. Eobard leans over and takes it into his mouth, giving Barry pleasure from one source even while he persists in discomforting Barry elsewise. Barry’s breath is still coming fast when Eobard gets the second finger firmly seated, but he’s fully hard again in Eobard’s mouth, and the sense of him in the speed force is back to being eager.

There’s still discomfort if Eobard looks deeply. That’s unavoidable. Very few people can get fucked for the first time without it being at least a little uncomfortable. Shortly – if Eobard does his part correctly – there will be enough pleasure to drown it out. Eventually, with regular sex, Barry will loosen enough that there won’t have to be discomfort at all. But for this time, a little mild discomfort is the best-case scenario.

Eobard slides his fingers out and reaches for the lube again. “This will be easier if you lay on your stomach.”

He says it because it’s true, and because, as the one in the position of experience here, it’s his duty to say it. He is nevertheless pleased when Barry shakes his head.

 _I’m not in any danger of forgetting that I’m with you,_ Barry replies silently, with an ironic amusement through the very link responsible for the permanency of his memory, _but all the same, I’d rather try it this way first._

 _I confess to preferring it myself._ Eobard fetches a pillow and slides it under Barry’s splayed legs, nudging Barry until Barry lifts his ass up and lets Eobard prop him up. Then Eobard returns to the lubricant. This time it’s for himself, and he slicks himself thoroughly. Generously. Teasing himself up to full hardness with the sight of Barry, spread and waiting and wanting, all for Eobard.

How many times had Eobard’s teenage self locked the bedroom door and rubbed one out, face muffled into his own pillow, dreaming of his childhood hero? But there’s an insurmountable gulf between that teenager and the man he’d grown into. A gulf measured not just in years or miles but in blood and hatred and death.

Barry is watching him, lower lip half-caught between his teeth. The feeling of Barry is… lustful, mainly. Anticipatory. Nervous, a little. A little bit braced for pain. But trusting.

Eobard could hurt him so easily, like this. Hurt him the way he’d hurt Eobard, once.

_It’s over. It can’t hurt them anymore._

Maybe it can’t hurt Iris West. Maybe it can’t hurt Cisco or Caitlin or Ronnie or Hartley. But it can hurt Barry, if Eobard lets it.

 _He_ could hurt Barry. If Barry lets him.

Barry wouldn’t let him. Barry would fight him, and win, if that’s what it would take. And then Barry would insist on trying again. As many times as it takes.

_(And then what? We live happily ever after?)_

As if Eobard wouldn’t give Barry anything he asked for, without question or hesitation.

Eobard nudges in. Slowly, slowly, just the barest pressure, sinking in a little at a time. With the pillow under Barry’s ass Eobard can kneel between his spread legs and hold his cheeks apart, freed of the need to spare one hand to balance himself. That helps Barry open for Eobard. Helps Eobard breach him, and slowly come to possess him, quarter-inch by quarter-inch.

The sense of Barry quivers. Eobard watches it, watches Barry’s face, ruthlessly throttling back the animal side that snaps and snarls and wants only to rut. Eobard may not be any better than that, but Barry is, and Eobard has made a promise.

The discomfort never quite tips over to pain. And then Eobard is seated, and Barry relaxes all at once with a gasp.

 _The hard part’s over,_ he says sheepishly. _I – I guess I was being foolish –_

 _Not at all,_ Eobard soothes him. He shifts, experimentally, testing Barry’s sensitivity. Pleasure rocks through them both, and Eobard doesn’t even try to hide his delight. Barry is _extremely_ sensitive. It will be easy to make him feel good, even this first time, even before Barry has enough experience to know what he does and doesn’t like best while getting fucked.

 _We can’t all have a lover in every time period,_ Barry grumps.

Eobard blinks at this, nonplussed. _Are you –_ it’s impossible, but – Barry doesn’t quite suppress the emotion in time, and Eobard feels it clearly. _You’re jealous!_

 _I’m greedy,_ Barry corrects ruefully. _I want you all to myself._

 _You have me,_ Eobard promises. He pats Barry’s knees, the soft skin of his inner thighs, his belly, all the parts of Barry Eobard can reach without jostling them where they’re intimately connected. _And if I may be forgiven for the conventionality of the emotion – I rather like that you’re new to this._

 _You would be._ The sense of Barry changes, fondness overtaking everything else. _Anyone ever tell you you’re an obsessive bastard?_

 _You, several times._ Eobard shifts again, rocks slightly – not enough to qualify as a full thrust, but making good use of the half-inch or so of give Barry has in him right now, before newly-stretched muscles begin to squeak. _I got the impression you found it an appealing trait._

 _Hazards of hero work, I guess. What the world calls obsession, we call dedication. And…_ Barry blushes – not with his skin, but with his soul. Eobard, fascinated, memorizes everything about the way it feels.

_And?_

_And…_ The sense of Barry is still metaphorically pink-tinged, but he meets Eobard’s gaze fearlessly. _There’s something to be said for having all of that attention focused on me._

Eobard laughs. _In other words –_

Barry reaches one of those impossibly long arms out and catches at thin air, once, twice, before Eobard gets the message and reaches out, letting Barry twine their fingers together.

_In other words, please get on with making me scream your name loudly enough that the neighbors protest._

_There aren’t any neighbors. And with how fast we’re both going to be going, they wouldn’t understand you if there were._ They’ve both maintained a decent level of control up until now, but if Eobard does his job right, neither of them are going to hang on to it for long. That’s the other dirty little secret of these sheets: they’re made of the same material as their speed-safe clothing, the better to stand up to a speedster – or two – losing control of their velocity in an unguarded moment.

Sheet burn is such a mood-killer.

 _Eobard –_ Barry begs.

Eobard moves. Pulls out further this time, thrusts in more quickly. Barry shuts up and hisses – he’s feeling the burn of stretched muscles, but he _likes_ it, Eobard can tell, and so Eobard does it again, pulling back even further, adjusting the angle of his hips until he can feel the shot of pure pleasure echoing through Barry. And then he does it again. And again.

Barry shrieks. Worried, Eobard catches at the sense of him, but it’s not pain. It’s not even properly pleasure. It’s just endorphins, spiking past Barry’s limited ability to regulate, needing to escape somehow.

The feeling is intoxicating. Eobard feels himself responding with wild joy, lips stretching into the kind of wide smile he hasn’t known in – longer than he can remember, longer than he _cares_ to remember – it doesn’t matter, anyway; all that matters is Barry, who is losing the fight for control, and shaking apart so beautifully that Eobard forgets to breathe.

 _Oh my god,_ Barry is panting, _oh my god…_

Eobard doesn’t bother to hold back his laughter. _The second orgasm’s going to feel even better,_ he promises.

_Second –_

Eobard doesn’t give Barry a chance to finish the thought. He goes right back to fucking Barry. What a sight that is. Barry looks almost stunned, green eyes wide and glassy with the pleasure of his first orgasm, mouth lax – Eobard wants to kiss him, but he won’t bend Barry that far for it, not until Barry’s far more experienced in this kind of pleasure – he settles for kissing Barry’s knee, and reaching down to wrap a hand around Barry’s cock.

There’s a jolt through their connection again; Barry’s sensitive from his first orgasm, but not so sensitive that he doesn’t thrust into Eobard’s hand the second his muddled brain processes what’s going on. Eobard tastes Barry’s sudden realization that his first orgasm had been entirely untouched and revels in the sense of that. In Barry’s astonishment. Barry hadn’t known that would be possible. Nor had he known it would be possible for him to grow hard again so quickly, but under Eobard’s hand he’s doing it.

 _Speedsters,_ Eobard tells him smugly.

 _A guh,_ Barry says eloquently. He’s already riding the edge again. Oh, to be young.

 _The idea of two people coming at the same time is entirely artificial,_ Eobard tells Barry seriously. _It only happens in porn._

 _How are you so fucking coherent right now?!?_ Barry shrieks.

 _I’m performing an experiment._ Eobard’s hand is still slick from the lubricant; it makes jerking Barry easy. Their connection lets him sense exactly how close Barry is. He moderates his speed in Barry, urging himself on likewise. _If I’ve got this right –_

_Oh, oh, oh God –_

Barry goes entirely to pieces the second time. It’s beautiful to watch, and if the mere sensation of being balls-deep in Barry Allen weren’t enough to set Eobard off, this would more than do it.

The orgasm starts in Eobard’s belly and burns outward from there, shooting hot completion into every tingling limb, even as he spends himself far more literally inside Barry’s welcoming body. It doesn’t matter how many times Eobard has done this before, with men and women whose names and faces he’s long since forgotten. None of them had been speedsters. None of them had been _Barry._ This may as well be the first time for both of them. Nothing, Eobard is certain, will ever feel like this again.

Except possibly the next time they do this. Because there will be a next time. Because Barry wants to try, in spite of all of the stains on Eobard’s soul. And what Barry wants, Eobard will empty himself out to give.

 _Eobard,_ Barry whispers, tugging on the hand he’s still holding. _Please, please –_

 _Almost,_ Eobard promises. It takes a moment for him to pull out of Barry, still keeping a watchful eye on the sense of Barry, visually inspecting him as well, making sure there’s no pain and no damage. Then there’s the need for a handful of tissues; call Eobard fastidious, but he doesn’t like the feeling of drying semen. Then he can obey Barry’s request and his own wish, wrap Barry up in his arms and sigh contentment into Barry’s shoulder.

It’s better, in its own way, than fucking Barry had been. Which is not to say that fucking Barry had been anything short of amazing. But this – this is trust on an entirely different level. This is affection. Even love. With all the vulnerability and willingness to accept pain that that implies.

_(It won’t be easy. I’ve done a lot of things.)_

_(Me too. But there’s certainly no going back… so let’s go forward. Find out what comes next.)_

_(And then what? We live happily ever after?)_

Barry’s breath is warm against the side of Eobard’s neck. His heart rate is dropping back to normal, but Eobard can still feel it, dimly, half through their bare skin and half through the speed force. It’s pleasingly strong and rhythmic. Eobard thinks he could fall asleep to it.

Barry has other ideas. _Eobard?_

_Mmm?_

_Was that… was I…_ Barry clears his throat, which is utterly charming, since he’s not actually using it to speak. _…any good?_

Eobard has to pick his head up off Barry’s shoulder at that one, the better to stare in astonished disbelief. _Barry Allen, are you kidding me right now?_

The sense of Barry in the speed force – if Eobard didn’t know better, he’d swear it’s turning pink around the edges with embarrassed determination. _First times are never that great, I know –_

 _Perish the thought._ If Eobard isn’t going to get to put his head back down, he’s at least going to make the strain on his neck muscles worthwhile by kissing those enticingly parted lips. _While I have every confidence that there will be even better sex in our future, that should not be taken to mean that the sex we just enjoyed was in any way less than satisfying._

Barry seems to accept this, along with Eobard’s kisses. Eobard is just about to settle his head back down to the pillow, when –

 _It just doesn’t seem_ fair _,_ Barry murmurs. _I got off twice, but you only got off once – you must be just as capable of going multiple rounds as I am?_

 _Yes,_ Eobard says carefully, unsure where this is going. _But there’s no need to be strict. Believe me, I enjoyed that thoroughly._

 _I did too!_ Barry rolls over, all earnest eyes and warm smiles. _I was just thinking… if you weren’t completely drained…?_

He’s doing that fascinating soul-blush again. _What did you have in mind?_ Eobard asks, intrigued.

He gets his answer when Barry pushes him onto his back and dives between his legs. Turns out Barry had liked his first experience of giving a blowjob, and, well –

_(And then what? We live happily ever after?)_

_–_ stranger things have happened, after all.


End file.
